1.14

Dear Rosario:

I've finally managed to talk to David about the possibility of you visiting next spring. Considering the current state of the Safe House, I think it would be better if you don't –

No, that won't work.

Dear Rosie,

If you want to come and visit in the spring, that's absolutely fine with me! The thing is, I don't think you'll be able to stay at the Safe House, and I know your mom won't be comfortable with you staying in a hotel on your own –

An image leaps into my head of Mayday reading this email, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. Even from over a thousand miles away, her fingers could close around my neck…

Rosie,

There's a bit of a difficulty with you coming to visit during spring break. I'm fine with it, but I want to make sure your mom would be okay with it as well before jumping the gun. Also, we'd have to stay in a hotel for the time you're here in New York, because of certain logistical issues; the Safe House is my workplace as well as my home, so it would be difficult for me to squeeze you in there as well.

Now, that actually might work. I wince at the thought of raising the funding to stay in a New York hotel – a decent New York hotel – for over a week, and then grind my teeth. Hell, if there's any reason I'm consulting, it'd be for this. Extra money means more availability means I can spend time with the people I care about, i.e. my favorite niece. My only niece, but even if I had others, she'd still be my favorite.

If you want to send me the scheduling for your spring break, I can organize a few days off, and we can roam the city! What do you think?

I end the email a few paragraphs later, after thoroughly dissecting her last email and asking the pertinent questions: did she get that book she wanted last month, what does she think of the latest movie that I know she's seen, etcetera. I know she won't be getting it from her mother, after all.

It mystifies me to this day how my sister can be so utterly disconnected from her own teenage daughter. It's not as though she and Rosario are all that dissimilar. Rosie loves horses; she loves crap reality TV; she absolutely adores Harrison Ford (I blame Mayday for my own obsession with the man). It might be because of how early Mayday had her (May was sixteen when she ended up pregnant; Rosie's almost twelve now.) or it might be because of just…personality abrasion. Mayday is fierce. Rosie's just as fierce and it means for a lot of conflict.

Sigh.

I lean back in my computer chair (which is one of Charlie's many, many duct-tape victims around the house right now) and rub my eyes. I could always ask Aiden if I could stay with her for a couple of days when Rosie shows. That would be cheaper than going to a hotel. Also, Aiden will pretty much be never there, considering how busy she is because of her job. But then again, I'd feel like a louse if I did that.

Hotel it is then, I suppose.

I should be getting ready to head over to the precinct right now, but I can't stomach the thought at the moment. I get more coffee, pulling my bathrobe tighter around myself, and settle on the TV room couch. The news is chortling in the background. Grand Master DJ Banner is dead. I can spot Aiden in the blurry background, and wonder if that's her new case.

Graham Lockyer. Even if I hadn't pissed him off so much that first day, we'd probably be getting sued anyway by now, but it still smarts. If it hadn't been for me, he probably would have just cited kidnapping instead of cults. Apparently, because Minzy dared to run away, we preyed on her innocence and initiated her into our 'cult.' David put on his stone-face when he saw the court papers, and he hasn't let me see them since.

I want you to stay away from this, Bridget.

Oh, like hell, I think, but there's not much I can do when I don't even know when the court date is. And in the first place, this is probably all my fault. I'm too raucous to work with parents. I'm too in-your-face. I've known it for years, but it's never actually sunk into my brain that I shouldn't do it.

I'm a manager, and it's automatic for me to manage things, but this is one thing that I can't and really shouldn't even try to.

The judge is one David knows; he's going to meet with the guy this morning. Hopefully that means it won't be pulled into an actual court hearing. But I need to talk to Minzy, because if Minzy is really staying with Simon, that could royally screw things up.

Which means I'll have to talk to them both, and soon. That's just gonna be oodles of fun, I can see it right now.

"Hey, Bridget."

It's Charlie. He probably stayed in one of the guest bedrooms overnight; he's been doing that a lot lately. He rubs his eyes for a moment, and then comes and sits on the couch next to me, and sets his head on my shoulder. I hold still for a moment, and then brush my fingers through his hair and change the channel to Cartoon Network. He reminds me more and more of a little kid now. If there are other kids in the room, he's twelve-year-old tough Taquito again, but if it's me or Stella or Zoë, he's just a kid.

He's been spending more and more time at the Safe House too. I wonder if his parents are even looking for him anymore.

"Morning, you. I was gonna make pancakes, you want some?"

"Will there be chocolate chips?"

"…possibly."

"Then yeah."

Court dates can wait. I'll call David this afternoon and ask how the meeting went. And then I'll go and visit Minzy. For now, I have pancakes to make, and then a detective to stalk. I rest my cheek on the top of Charlie's head for a moment, and then get up. "You wanna help me make them?"

"Mm."

"You know where I hide the chips."

Steampunk, according to a quick Google search (damn you, Google), is 'a sub-genre of science fiction, fantasy, alternate history, and speculative fiction which involves a setting where steam power is still widely used, usually Victorian-era Britain.' According to the Five-Borough Steampunk Society website, the FBSS has been going on for over ten years, demonstrating the spirit of steampunk – a mix of new and old, modern and Victorian, and, above all, dependent upon steam, rather than coal and electricity.

Or, as Flack puts it, "a bunch of whack-jobs runnin' around in corsets and skirts."

Of course, the thing I'm stuck on is wondering how the hell they get the steam without burning coal, but whatever.

I print out the dictionary definitions of the word 'steampunk' and then join Flack in the staff room on the first floor of the precinct, where he's been hiding for the past hour and a half. I think it might be because of the fairly angry-looking blonde woman standing by his desk. She's been there since I arrived, and her purse looks heavy.

"You want to tell me why the model is waiting by your desk?" I ask, as I hand him the papers and flop back on the couch. One of the cool things about being a consultant is that I don't have to dress nearly so snazzy as the detectives have to. Well, I do anyway, sometimes, but today I'm in my gypsy skirt and that always puts me in a good mood. "Because she and Pierce look about ready to spit at each other."

Yes. Apparently Miss Piercings' actual name is Pierce. I revel at the irony.

Flack keeps his eyes steadfastly on the laptop he's working on, but I can read how stiff he is in the set of his shoulders. "She's still here?"

"Yeah. She tried to stab me with her nails when I went to your desk to get that file."

He grimaces. "Sorry."

I touch his shoulder, lightly. He's surprisingly warm. "She's the one who tried to stab me, not you."

"My fault though."

That's true. "What the hell did you do to this woman, Flack?"

"I didn't do anything, Carter. It was one date. And now this." His eyes slide to mine, and I wonder if he wants to ask me a question. He has that expression on his face. "Apparently I'm the best 'escort' she's had in years."

Okay. Scratch that question. "Where'd you dig her up, in a debutante ball?"

"She stole my coffee, actually, and wrote her number on it." And that's the end of the discussion. "I'll go talk to her in a minute. Don't have the stomach for it right now."

"We could always sneak out the back door if you want," I offer, and when he raises an eyebrow, I feel the back of my neck go hot. "I mean, if she's stabbing me with her nails…"

"You may have a point." He taps a few keys. "Found it."

Jun Takayama's MySpace page is black with violet trim, and the profile picture reveals that he had green eyes; something I hadn't thought about before. Something twists in my chest at the sight. Flack drops down on the couch next to me, transferring the laptop to my knees so I can explore the page more thoroughly, and then says, "You okay, Doc?"

"Huh?" I'm reading through Jun Takayama's General Interests. (Artist. Designer. Eternal dreamer.) Sex is listed as 'male'. He looks male. Pretty rather than rugged, but male nonetheless. "You're the one with a stalker by your desk."

"I talked to Dave yesterday." Dave. David. The court order. I fight a scowl and fix my eyes to the screen. "I know we don't get along very well, Doc, but that doesn't mean I don't wanna help if I can."

My hands go still on the keyboard for a moment. Then I pull up Jun Takayama's last post, and say, "Thanks, Flack. I don't know if there's a lot you can do, but…that helps."

A hand brushes my hair. At least, I think it does. When I send him a look out of the corner of my eye, though, he's leaning forward to collect his mug of coffee, determinedly not looking at me. "Of course."

It's getting too touchy for my liking. I give him the computer back, get to my feet, and head to the counter so I can make some coffee of my own. "So what am I doing here today, Flack, other than looking at a MySpace page that you could have just told me about on the phone?"

Long pause. I can feel Flack's eyes boring into my neck. "Better than sittin' around the Safe House all day waiting for David to get back from the court hearing."

Okay. That's a little too close to the mark. "Minzy matters to me, Flack. She's a sweet girl and I don't want her to go back to that son of a bitch."

"I don't want her to do that either, Doc, so don't snap my head off."

"I'm not—"

"You're tryin' to."

I slam a mug down, and when I reach for the coffeepot I realize my hands are shaking. Deep breaths, Bridge. I clench my fingers, and then set both hands on the counter. The tile's cool under my palms. "God. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He takes the mug from my hands, pours some coffee into it, and then hands it back. "That place matters to you."

He's like an X-ray. An emotional X-ray. If he keeps doing it, I don't know whether I'll be able to keep up my shields. I look at him for a moment, and add cream and sugar and chocolate syrup to my coffee. I think of Charlie and Willow and Wilder. Simon and David and Minzy. "Yeah, it is."

"When'd you start working there?"

"Three years ago. No. Wait. Almost four. I think." I'd just turned twenty-four, and that was…whoa. Um. Three years ago. I wonder how old Flack is. "Right after I left Tucson. I couldn't stand being there any longer. It was too…it was too close."

"It's a city, isn't it?" he asks, and I half-laugh.

"It's one of those big sprawling cities that feels like it's a mile square. People know people know people. It's not…I didn't like it. It was…" I struggle for a word. "It was oppressive. Partly because my family's there. But…I don't know how to explain it."

"And the Safe House?"

"I volunteered there when I was a student and David remembered me. And we needed a night-shift psychologist. So I took the job while working through my doctorate and now I'm assistant director." And I'm talking like a maniac. I sip my coffee. "Have we heard anything from Takayama's parents?"

"No. I've been leavin' messages, but no one calls back."

"Where are they, do you know?"

"Louisiana."

I nearly spit up my coffee. "Louisiana?"

"Problem, Doc?"

"No." My sister's ex-husband lives in Louisiana. Just a coincidence, I'm sure. "What part?"

"Baton Rouge." He drops back onto the couch again. "According to some of the witnesses from the hotel, Takayama showed up two years ago. He was homeless for a while too, but the Feebs gave him a job and he started staying with Andy Devilliers, AKA 'Endeavor.'" He crooks his fingers. I haven't seen anyone do that since high school. "I was gonna go see the bedroom today. It's in Lenox Hill."

"Don't you have another case though?" I ask. I saw the new case file on his case when I went to collect the papers on this case. "You caught that DJ case, right? Do you have time to go up to Lenox Hill today?"

"I have time until Mac and Aiden bring someone in for me to torture." He gives me a sidelong look. "You tryin' to get rid of me, Doc?"

"No." Well. Maybe. "I'm just saying, I saw the murder on the news. It's…kind of bigger than this one. More publicity."

"I've done what I can do for the Banner case. Until Mac and Aiden give me another lead, or until the things I've been lookin' into turn something up – and the unis are doin' the footwork for me – there's no point in me hangin' around twiddling my thumbs."

This makes sense. But I still like I'm invading. I study my mug. "You'd have been a good life coach, Flack."

He considers. Then he shakes his head. "Nah. Not patient enough. Besides, this job's more interesting." He knocks his coffee mug against my own, lightly. "So, you wanna read more about the kid, or do you wanna dissect his room first?"

I consider for a moment, just standing there, watching him. Flack keeps shocking me, and I'm not sure if I can keep handling it the way I have been. Fighting the urge to lean on him (he's so tall, I could probably live in his shadow for the rest of my life and never be seen again), I finish my coffee, rinse out the mug, and turn back to the laptop to memorize the account name.

"Room. Maybe then your stalker will finally get the hint."

He groans. "Don't go there, Doc."

I'm halfway under the bed of one Jun Takayama, searching for hidden secrets, when my phone rings, and I smack my head on the floor. Cursing under my breath (and ignoring Flack, who sounds close to laughter as he says, "You okay down there?") I squirm back out from under the bed and seize my phone. "Yeah?"

"Bridget?"

It's Minzy. I can't think of what to say. Now that I know she's okay, I want to smack her. I mean, I know she wouldn't go off and do something stupid, but adding an already highly anxious Bridget with no contact for weeks equals very angry Bridget. After a moment, I cough, and say, "Minzy."

"Simon told me David went to court."

"Yeah, he did." Flack raises an eyebrow at me. I rub the back of my head. "Listen, Minzy, where have you been? I know this has been hard, but that doesn't mean you get to run off and not even tell us where you're going. We were worried sick over you."

I can hear a long car horn on the other side of the line, but Minzy says nothing for a full minute. I open Jun Takayama's desk drawers in the meantime, sorting through them blindly. "Minzy."

"I'm here."

"I know this freaks you out, okay? But you need to come back to the Safe House. I need to know that you're safe. And don't tell me where you've been staying. I don't think it really matters anymore." If she's been staying with Simon, then it's better that I don't know, just in case the board of directors comes crashing down on us after this. Also, it could get Simon arrested for illegally harboring a runaway without informing her parents of her location. "And I'm not gonna make you talk to Clary, even though I really think you should, sweetie."

"…I know." She says. Her voice is hoarse. I wonder if she's been crying. "I don't want to."

"I don't think it matters at this point whether you want to or you don't. David went to court today, and if he can't get Lockyer to back down, you're gonna have to talk about it whether you want to or not." I don't want to be too hard on her, though, so I temper it with, "But we'll see what happens after today. David knows the judge. He might be able to convince him that this legal crap is just…crap. Okay?"

Another long pause. Then she clears her throat. "Okay."

"Where are you, honey?"

"Times Square."

Which explained the loud background noises. "I'm not that far from there right now. So I want you to stay where you are and then I'll come and find you as soon as I can. All right?"

"But—"

"What's happened doesn't matter to me, Minzy. I just want you home. Okay?"

I think she's crying, but she doesn't want me to hear it. After a minute or two, she says, "Okay" in a voice that's so soft I can barely hear it. Then she clears her throat and says it again, stronger this time. "Okay."

"She okay?"

I hold the phone in both hands, wondering if it's creepy that I have to lean on the bed of a dead man for support. Today is a really, really, really bad day for investigating. I can't even focus on Jun Takayama now, and I'm sitting in his room staring at the posters he's stuck to the ceiling. Mostly fashion stuff. Well, he certainly has a one-track mind, that's for sure. "I don't know."

"It's that guy from Southie, right? The one who's filin' against the Safe House."

"Graham Lockyer, yes." I'd like nothing more than to rip his face off at this point. How dare he accuse us of mistreating the kids. How dare he try to blackmail Minzy into coming back. How dare he. I run a hand over my face, and then stare at the ceiling some more. "Flack, I dunno if I can keep working today. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be panicking like this. I really shouldn't. I know that there's absolutely no way this is gonna go forward."

"But you're still worried."

To my horror, I feel heat pressing against the back of my eyes. I pull my knees up to my chest, and curl into myself. "I'm sorry. I keep dumping things on you today. I shouldn't."

Flack holds his hand out. I look up at him, nearly snapping my neck in the process, before taking it and letting him pull me to my feet. "You see anything in here?"

"Not really. Once I know more, maybe it'll be different." Then again, I haven't been looking very hard. "We'll be able to come back?"

"Probably. And you filmed everything, remember?"

That's true. I grab my camera and shut it down. I feel like a loser; I shouldn't be this panicked about a court hearing. There are loads of court hearings every day.

But those court hearings don't have the potential to ruin your life.

Flack studies me for a moment longer, and then jerks his head towards the door. "Come on. I'll drive you over, yeah?"

"Yeah." He's halfway out the door when I get the courage to finally spit it out. "Thank you."

He pauses, and grins at me. His eyes are practically dancing. "You're my partner, Doc. What else am I supposed to be doin'?"

I've never thought of it that way before. Don Flack and Bridget Carter. Partners in crime. Or against crime, I guess I should say. I haven't had a partner since Miles, and Miles has been dead for a few years now. The video camera quakes in my hands, and before I can second-guess myself, I say, "I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm."

"You let me decide that for myself, okay?" he says, and gestures towards the door. "C'mon, we'd better go pick up your runaway before she bolts again."

Later, after he's dropped a weepy Minzy and a stone-faced Bridget off at the Safe House, and he's safe in his own apartment with a mug of something more alcoholic than he should probably be having while in the middle of not one but two murder investigations, Flack lets out a breath. There's energy leaping inside his skin; he feels like he should be running right now, running and running, trying to work through the thoughts that are tumbling through his mind.

It's that guy from Southie, right?

Graham Lockyer, yes.

He wonders if she noticed that her hands had clenched into fists at the very mention of the guy's name.

Mac calls again, and Flack lets it go to voicemail. He already knows what Mac's gonna say. He can call him back in an hour. He's already wired in that he's done for the afternoon; until Hawkes comes up with something from autopsy, or one of the CSIs gives him something evidence-worthy to chase, he officially has nothing to do.

The file that Gerrard gave him about Bridget Carter sits like a poisonous mushroom in his locked desk drawer. He's already decided not to study it. He doesn't like having the upper hand over a partner. Or someone who's supposed to be a partner. If she wants me to know, she'll tell me.

Gerrard wants to meet her too, considering she was the one who managed to take down John McEnroe. Which is just going to be a regular barrel of monkeys. Flack pulls his phone down off the counter, feeling like an idiot for sitting on the floor rather than on one of the chairs, and sends her a short text (Gerrard wants to see us tomorrow) before calling Mac back. There's a suspect to be interviewed for the Banner case.

It's that guy from Southie, right?

Graham Lockyer, yes.

Flack remembers Graham Lockyer. Tall and thick-set, with flat gray eyes. He'd had his hand up to punch Bridget Carter in the face when Flack had walked in the door. He scowls, and tightens his grip on the mug. He hasn't actually had any of it, which is why he's so concerned about the tightly controlled fury that's spiraling through him. He's not so unprofessional as to come back to work after a quick break smelling of wine.

The phone buzzes. Bridget. Okay. When?

How the hell is he supposed to know? Come in when you can.

See you at ten tomorrow. She responds, and then the screen of the phone goes dark and it shouldn't feel like a slap. But it does. And that's dangerous.

He wonders how the hearing went. He wonders if Graham Lockyer was there for it. He really, really, really shouldn't be thinking about crushing the guy's spine. No matter how many problems it would solve. He shouldn't be thinking about it, because Bridget Carter is his partner and a consultant, for God's sake. She's a grown woman. She can take care of herself.

I'm not the best partner. I'm kind of a bad luck charm.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea to keep working with her after all, he thinks, and sets his glass on the table so he can get up and go back to work. He hopes the suspect they need him to interview is an idiot. Or, better yet, an asshole. It'd be better if he had some way to get this anger out without pounding Graham Lockyer into the mat.

And then once the interview is over, he'll beat the crap out of a punching bag. Because he needs to get rid of this, because if it keeps on going, it'll start to affect his work, and that is one thing he really, really cannot allow it to do.

He checks the phone again. Ten tomorrow.

And it's pathetic, but he's looking forward to it already.

Flack makes a mental note to check himself into a mental hospital, grabs his jacket, and heads back out the door.

A/N:

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

GENERAL NOTE - Steampunk Mona Lisa should wrap up Season One (I told you it might go for a while!) so, my friends, expect Regina and Lindsay to come in soon! I want to go deeper into the Regina plotline, as opposed to just letting it be the way out for Aiden to leave the show, so things might get a little intense...just a warning to y'all.

Alice Quarantine: Why yes, you did! ::dances with fellow Firefly fan:: Sometimes I can't resist throwing little things like that in. And because I love Firefly so much, it naturally exudes into everything I do. Haha. And I adore Panic! so some of their songs will probably be cropping up throughout the Steampunk Mona Lisa arc.

Pecan Tweet: Amber will probably pop back up, but after the whole 'court' drama is over. And the case will pick up in speed next chapter, I'm certain of it. (I also think Flack and Bridget will start to get closer during this arc, especially because of the whole Graham Lockyer/Minzy thing. I have a few more ideas too...so hang on. :3)

yaba: Silas Meyer will probably pop up again, just because I love writing Bridget's inner dialogue while he's in the room. She gets so acerbic, it's hilarious to me. :) And I'm glad you're enjoying!

Kaycee-x John Cenaholic: I will keep Aiden in the story if it is the last thing I do. But I'm also going to bring Lindsay in...so I'll have to figure that out.

matt-hardy-lover-101: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I plan to bring back the Greenbaum Menace sooner rather than later...possibly next chapter. But it should be fun to do.

Love you!
-Shu